Winter Duty

by E. E. Knight

  A chittering raccoon, blinking at him from a tree branch.

  Valentine lowered the pistol barrel.

  In a cheap horror movie, this would be the moment for the Reaper to come up behind. Valentine turned a full circle. The woods were empty.

  A half hour later he’d traced the tracks to an old road running along the bank of the Ohio River above the flood line. Above what was technically the flood line, that is; the road showed evidence of having survived at least one flood. The Reaper could have continued on to the river or headed down the road in either direction. It might even have stashed a bicycle somewhere—a Reaper could reach a fantastic speed on two wheels.

  Now all that was left was the grim accounting. Perhaps the Reaper had grabbed some poor sentry and terrified him into giving an estimate of their reduced strength once Bloom had departed. There’d be a name to report missing and fear in the camp.

  Such a loss would be worse to take than an ambush or a fire-fight, where at least the men could feel like they shot back. A single man’s death after so many weeks without a casualty worse than a broken ankle would loom all the larger over dinner conversation.

  It took three hours for word to come back to the alarmed operations center: all in-fort personnel present and accounted for, from the most distant sentry to the cook stocking potatoes in one of the basements against the winter.

  One other person had caught a good look at the Reaper, and Valentine and Lambert heard the story from a shaken-up mechanic named Cleland, brought in by Frat, who’d found him in crouched on the unpleasant side of a board over a pit toilet and helped him out. Cleland was up late winterproofing a pump, went to the cookhouse for a hot sandwich and coffee, and saw a tall figure standing silhouetted against one of the security lights.

  “Just looked like he was trying to keep warm, wrapped up. Didn’t notice how tall he was right off as I was headin’ up the hill, you know.”

  Valentine’s nose noted that Cleland hadn’t done the most thorough job cleaning up before giving his report.

  “Standing in the light?” Valentine asked.

  “Turned toward it, more like. I saw something in its hand.”

  “He needed light,” Lambert said, looking at Valentine. “It’s a dark night.”

  “Could you see what it was?” Valentine asked.

  “Piece of paper, maybe. It shoved whatever it was into its cloak when it heard me. Damn thing looked right at me. Yellow eyes. Nobody ever told me how bright they were. A man doesn’t forget that. Don’t think I ever will.”

  “What then?”

  “I ran like the devil. Or like the devil was after me, more like. Dodged through the transport-lot and jumped into the old latrine.”

  “You can go, Cleland,” Lambert said. “Get a drink if you like at the hospital. Medicinal bourbon.”

  “What do you think?” Lambert asked Valentine after Cleland left.

  Valentine looked at the alert report. “They found a garbage can overturned by the cookhouse. Could be raccoons again.”

  “A Reaper snuck onto the base to go through our garbage? Not even the garbage at headquarters; a can full of greasy wax paper and coffee grounds?”

  Valentine had the same uncomfortable feeling he’d had on his first trip into the Kurian Zone, when he learned that one of his charges had been leaving information for Kurian trackers.

  “A message drop,” Valentine said.

  “Possibly. People go to the canteen at all hours. It’s a good spot. Almost everyone’s there once a day.”

  “That means—it could be anyone.”

  “In a camp full of Quislings,” Lambert said.

  “Not anymore . . . at least I hope not,” Valentine said.

  Lambert lowered her voice. “They turned on their superiors once. We have to consider the possibility that they’ll do it again. How many of them are above going for a brass ring and an estate in Iowa?”

  “Will you take tea with me, Mister Valentine?” Mrs. O’Coombe asked as Valentine passed through her mini-camp on a blustery afternoon with blown leaves rattling against the Rover’s paneling. “You look chilled.”

  Valentine had no need to be anywhere. The column was waiting for a report from the Kentuckians about the status of their wounded left behind, not to mention offical permission to move through the new Freehold with an armed column. “Yes. I would like to talk to you.”

  “Tea elevates any social interaction,” she said, placing an elegant copper pot on the electrical camp stove running off the generator. Valentine admired the long spout and handle. The decorative top had elaborate etching.

  She opened a tin and spooned some black leaves into the holder at the top of the pot.

  “You’ll forgive me—I make some ceremony of this,” she said. “Teatime was always my time on the ranch. Even my husband, God rest him, didn’t disturb me if I closed my library door.”

  She poured.

  “Tea is the smell of civilization, don’t you think?”

  Valentine sniffed, briefly bringing the old mental focus to his nostrils. Not a strong scent, even to his old Wolf nose. Just wet leaves and hot water.

  “Not much of a smell.” Valentine said. “I’ve heard people put, er, that oil, berge—”

  “Bergamot,” she corrected. “Yes, Earl Grey. A classic. Not that hard to make. Are you a fan of teas, Mister Valentine?”

  “I used to drink some good stuff in New Orleans. Lots of trade there. I had sage tea in Texas. I trade my whiskey and tobacco rations for tea, the Southern Command stuff.”

  “Dusty mud,” she said. “These are real leaves, from China and India.”

  They drank. Valentine sniffed again, letting his Wolf’s nose explore the pleasantly delicate aroma.

  “No, it’s not a strong smell,” she said. “But then civilization isn’t a strong presence either. The whole idea is the sublimation of coarser practices. Yet when it disappears—just as when your cup is empty—you’ll notice its absence more. Receiving mail is an ordinary experience until it doesn’t show up for a week; then its interruption is keenly felt.”

  “We’d like nothing better than weekly mail out here.”

  “How is the bond tour going, Mister Valentine?”

  “Poorly, I’m afraid. These Kentuckians keep their gold close. We’ve had some donations of whiskey, boots, and craft goods that we might be able to trade for butter and eggs, if we come across a farm wife in a patriotic mood. You’ll see that on the road.”

  “I am anxious to get started. I wish to see my son again.”

  “You know, there’s a chance we may never find Corporal O’Coombe.” Valentine thought it better not to list all the reasons—sepsis, an illness, discovery by Moondaggers sweeping across Javelin’s line of retreat looking for those left behind to take and torture . . .

  “I’ve prepared myself for that eventuality, Mister Valentine.”

  “You seem like a woman used to getting her way. I hope we’ll be able to complete our sweep and bring back a few more of Southern Command’s own.”

  “My staff and their vehicles are entirely at your disposal, sir. Our agreement still stands. I am allowed to search for my son; you are allowed to bring back any you have left behind. If we cannot find news of my son, all I ask is a finding that he’s been killed in action so that his memory may be honored accordingly.”

  Valentine would be glad to have Mrs. O’Coombe’s crew out of his graying hair. Her precious doctor was always asking for better water, more sanitizer, more hands to pick up shifts changing bandages and bedding.

  In the end, Mrs. O’Coombe’s doctor came along after all, but only after the remaining Javelin doctor personally spoke to Valentine and explained that having a doctor along might mean the difference between a continued recovery and a setback as they moved the wounded.

  Though Valentine wondered how much of a specialist Mrs. O’Coombe’s doctor really was. He went by the unimaginative moniker of “Doc” and seemed more like a country sawbones than an ex
pert in difficult recoveries, though his nurse, a thick-fingered Louisiana-born woman named Sahita, had the serene, slightly blank look of an experienced caregiver. Sahita looked at the entire world through narrowed eyes and seemed naturally immune to chitchat, responding only in monosyllables if at all possible to any conversational efforts.

  Valentine and Frat did a final inspection before boarding the vehicles. Food, clothing, gear, guns. Everyone a first-aid kit, everyone a tool for finding food or making shelter.

  Frat had a big shoulder bag over his arm as well, stuffed with maps and battered old guidebooks to Kentucky. Valentine was rather touched by the imitation, if that’s what it was rather than coincidence.

  Though Frat had avoided choosing a diaper bag for his miscellany.

  Inspection complete and vehicles pronounced ready, they boarded their transport and put the engines in gear. Despite his misgivings, Valentine was relieved to be on the move at last. The sooner they started, the sooner he could return.

  The vehicles rolled out of Fort Seng in column order the next morning.

  The motorcycles blatted out first, followed by Rover with Valentine riding shotgun and Mrs. O’Coombe in back, looking for all the world like an annoying mother-in-law in a comedy of the previous century. Duvalier slumped next to her, head pillowed on her rolled-up overcoat, already settling in to sleep. Bee had reluctantly taken a place in the Bushmaster behind but soon amused herself by unloading magazines, cleaning the bullets, and reloading the magazines.

  The rest of the camouflage-painted parade followed.

  Valentine had a big, comfortable seat, and there was a clip for his rifle in the dashboard. A clever little map or reading light could be bent down from the ceiling, and there was even a little case in the seat for a pair of binoculars or maps or sandwiches or books or whatever else you might desire on a long trip.

  For such a wretched, ungoverned, miserable place, the Old World sure put a lot of thought into conveniences, Valentine thought ironically. Of course a New Universal churchman would counter that the conveniences applied to only one half of one percent of the world’s population.

  Habanero the wagon master controlled the wheel and gearshift in Rover, his earpiece in and a little control pad on his thigh that allowed him to radio the other drivers. He gave Valentine an extension so he could plug in to listen—and to speak if he had to.

  In the cabin of Rover, Valentine felt his usual isolation from the outside world when riding in a vehicle. While he enjoyed the comfort and convenience, you lost much of the appreciation of landscape and distance, proper humility before wind and weather.

  Of course he couldn’t overlook the advantages an engine and wheels gave when you had two hundred miles to cover in search of your scattered wounded. The pleasant, ten-minute walk to the gate took but a moment in Rover.

  “Slow here,” Valentine said as they approached the gate and the doughnut-selling missionary.

  “You need to install a drive-up window,” Valentine yelled from his rolled-down window. He’d been saving up the jibe all morning.

  “Wise of you,” the missionary said. “Oh, it’s you, my brother and friend. I’m glad you’ve decided to bow to the inevitable. But time runs short! Hurry! Go like Lot and his wife and do not look back.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Valentine said, getting out to claim a final doughnut for the road. “We’re not leaving. We’re just off to do a little touring. Would you recommend the Corvette museum in Bowling Green or the Lincoln birthplace?” Behind, he heard Duvalier get out, yawning.

  “I weep for you,” the missionary said. “You’re all dead, you know. A reckoning is coming. Weeds have sprouted in Kentucky’s green gardens, and it is time for the gardeners to replant. But first, the scythes and the cutters. Scythes and cutters, I say.”

  “They better be sharper than you,” Duvalier said. “It’s a sad—”

  “Wait a moment,” Valentine said. “What’s this about, you? What scythes, what cutters? I don’t believe in visions unless they’re specific.”

  “Oh, it’s coming, sir. Sooner than anyone expects.” He looked up and down the column. “You have one final chance to repent. Turn west and follow the sun. If you turn east, by your actions is Kentucky doomed. You sow the seeds of your own destruction.”

  “Shut up, you,” one of the Wolves yelled from the Chuckwagon.

  “Want us to gag him with his own pastries?” Frat called to Valentine.

  Valentine held up his hand, halting the Wolves in their tracks. “How does a man like you come by such intelligence?”

  The doughnut missionary grinned. He passed a finger down his nose. “I prayed and I learned over many long years. But I too had faults: pride and greed and lust. I was cast out to make my way among the heathen. But they did not take all my gifts. I still have my vision.”

  “False prophecy. I’ve seen no portents. Red sunsets before the Kurians ever move, my mother always told me. Long red sunsets and dawns, with blood on the clouds.”

  “Whispers on the wind, you poor soul. That’s how I know. Whispers on the wind.”

  “Would that the wind were a little clearer.”

  “I hear voices, you poor lost soul. See visions. Visions! Oh, they break the heart.”

  “I’m sorry you’re so burdened. How long have you carried that cross?”

  “Had them since I was little. Born in a Church hall, the New England Archon’s own retreat it was, but a grim place and nothing but lessons from the time I took my first step. That’s no way to serve the gods, no sir, not for me. I ran away as soon as I could climb over the wall and never looked back. Took up with some relief and reassurance workers and then signed up for the missions, first in group and then alone and with only faith and my poor wit. Been warning souls away from folly and death ever since.”

  Valentine took out his pocket notebook. “How long before our day of judgment? I’d like to make some preparations. Will, disposition of assets, and so forth.”

  “That I can’t tell you. Soon, though, sir. Soon. This will be a cruel winter, and many won’t live to see the spring. I say again: Repent now and leave Kentucky!”

  Valentine decided he’d heard all the detail he’d ever hear from the doughnut missionary, and he climbed back into Rover.

  “Why do you let that thing carry on so, Mister Valentine?” Mrs. O’Coombe said. “It insults every faculty of taste and reason.”

  “The men like his doughnuts,” Valentine said. A few had hopped out of the column to claim theirs. Valentine saw Frat hurl his into the man’s face as they pulled away.

  Mrs. O’Coombe snorted. “I heard a little of him on the way in. I wouldn’t give one of his clots of dough to one of my dogs. Sugar and lard. Mark my words, Mister Valentine, he’s trying to clog their arteries or give your men diabetes. Now, tell me, should we turn east immediately, or should we go south and pick up the old parkway?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Discard Run: Winter is the quietest time of the year in Kentucky. The locals retreat to the hearth and their livestock to barns (or to great intertwined piles, in the case of the legworms), and the frequent rains and occasional snow accumulation keep people close to home unless emergency forces them to travel. It is a time for neighbors and small towns to get together and enjoy the indoor pursuits of the season: the final steps in the canning and preserving of the harvest, pursuit of courtship or friendship, sewing circles, and hand tool swap meets.

  The column was sped on its way east by two factors. First, they did not have to forage for food or fuel, though where it was available, they were able to buy more with Mrs. O’Coombe’s gold. Second, the Kurian Order no longer existed outside Louisville, Lexington, or the crossriver suburbs of Cincinnati—none of which the column was interested in visiting. There were no checkpoints to route around, un-watched fords to find, or patrols to look out for. The only thing their motorcycle scouts had to do was report the condition of the roads or cuts or trails ahead.

  Valentine, a
lways willing to see a glass half empty when anything having to do with the Kurian Order was being discussed, maintained that the ease on the eastbound leg would just mean that much more difficulty on the westbound.

  Luckily, he couldn’t imagine just how right he was.

  Lambert had sent word to the clans through Brother Mark of the proposed route tracing the retreat of Javelin, with instructions that any of Southern Command’s surviving wounded be made ready for travel and certain frequencies be scanned for radio contact.

  They hadn’t left many behind, at least many who were expected to live more than a day or two. Valentine doubted they’d need half the bed space that had been allocated in the Bushmaster. Either the soldiers would be recovered enough now to sit, or they’d be beyond medical attention.

  Once in the Nolin and Green River Valleys, in this manner they picked up three of their wounded who’d escaped death by their wounds, secondary diseases, or the vengeful Moondaggers who’d followed in Javelin’s wake.

  The soldiers they picked up, eager to thank Valentine for their collection, were introduced to Mrs. O’Coombe, the true sponsor of their deliverance.

  Valentine decided he liked her a little better when he saw her attend to the soldiers they were accumulating. It wasn’t an act for the benefit of anyone, especially Valentine, who seemed to have as natural a knack for aggravating her as a piece of steel has for striking sparks when struck by a sharp piece of flint or quartz. She tended to them in a mix of Christian compassion and patriotic fervor. Nothing was too good for those who’d lost so much in the pursuit of the Cause.

  He began to enjoy the trip. The cold weather invigorated him, if anything, and apart from delivering anecdotes about the retreat or advice on routes, he had little to do. Mrs. O’Coombe made all the strategic decisions for the column, and the mile-by-mile operations were handled by wagon master Habanero.

  Frat was a superb scout, though Valentine was beginning to see why he was still a lieutenant. He wanted to do everything on his own. Run every risk, shoulder every burden, scout every town, be the first through every door. Valentine was impressed with his courage.